Bright Light Dim
by Heathenesque
Summary: In the aftermath of the invasion from the other side of the Gate, the Hero of Central goes missing. But is it a case of revenge? Or attonement?Eventual HavocMustang
1. Bright Light Dim I

**Bright Light Dim**

I'm a search light soul they say // But I can't see it in the night // I'm only faking when I get it right… 'Fell on Black Days' - Soundgarden

**I**

He glanced up at the leaden sky and pulled his collar tighter about his neck. It had been trying to snow all day, but what fell from the heavy, dark clouds was an inconstant mist that was not quite flakes and not quite rain, but all of it seemed determined to find its way down the back of his coat. With the afternoon fading into twilight, the temperature was dropping; it would soon be too cold to snow.

It would be perfect weather to find a nice warm tavern and enjoy a few rounds of hard, mulled cider with friends –and maybe cuddle up to a soft warm body or two, if he was lucky. Except there were only a few taverns still standing and there wouldn't be any alcohol served in any case. At best, the offering would be thin soups and stale bread to grimy, tired volunteers wandering in after a long day of clean-up, or search and rescue.

He snorted derisively as he pulled the bandana from his nose and mouth and shook the grit off of it. Three months after the invasion, 'rescue' was a misnomer. Anybody… any _body_ they found was usually long past the point that it would do them any good.

_Unless he was buried by the 'system'._

Records of known survivors --and even a few soldiers-- was a massive cluster-fuck. New lists from each area of the city were supposed to be turned in to main ops at the end of each week, mimeographed, then distributed to all the other ops so they could keep track. It took time, energy and determination to go from sector to sector hitting up each chief of ops for information, only to be met with confusion… or indifference. Some names never made it to any list; living, dead, injured or missing.

The sound of gastric distress from one of his search partners drifted from behind the crumbling remains of a stone wall that had once housed a florist, and Jean Havoc --newly promoted to captain in the aftermath of the invasion—sighed and pulled out a cigarette. A querying whine from his right stayed his hand before he struck the match and he glared down at the third member of their party; a large black and tan –and mostly grey from crawling through rubble—dog. "Hey, I haven't had one in hours and it looks like we're gonna be here awhile."

The dog; an indeterminate breed that looked like he was mostly shepherd and whom someone had the brilliant idea of naming Pookie (and the moron who thought _that_ was funny was going to get a boot up his ass if Havoc ever met him… 'Pookie' indeed), whined again, then flopped down on the cold, damp ground, rested his head on his outstretched paws and gazed up, giving a couple of hopeful thumps with his tail.

"Good idea," Havoc said, and sagged down onto an exposed step where the door of the shop once was. He lit the cigarette, took a long, deep drag, then let the smoke escape his lungs slowly. Resting his arms on his knees, he hung his head, letting the cigarette dangle from his lips. He was bone-weary, but they were still on patrol for four more hours. He just hoped they were uneventful, because he really didn't have the energy --nor the patience-- to wrestle some two-bit punk to the ground if he caught him robbing someone. He'd probably just shoot the bastard instead, and get it over with quickly.

Martial Law had been declared immediately after the invasion, but the survivors were not secure. There weren't any doors to lock on tents and shacks, after all. Solid shelter was in short supply as any building even moderately sound had been taken over by triage and operations. Even the main building of Central, which housed the military and Parliament offices, was occupied. Although billeting the government, the top brass of the military and their families, one floor had been converted into a surgery that handled the patients triage couldn't. In a stroke of irony, it was the only building left standing that was entirely self-contained. The headquarters had its own water supply, along with heating and sewer and generators that kept the power on.

Main operations was placed in the center of the parade grounds, and soldiers were given at least one hot shower, cooked meal and a night in a clean cot per week, before being sent to their next assignment.

_Hasn't been assigned to demolition. No one's seen him on patrol._

It could have caused some consternation among the rest of the survivors that only the upper echelons and military were given the privilege of these accommodations, but at the end of the day, the Prime Minister's wife was indistinguishable from the prostitute standing next to her and everyone was working together, regardless of social status or station.

Like morning toadstools after a summer rain, enclaves of tents and cobbled-together shelters –some little more than lean-tos-- had sprung up in any clear space around Central and rapidly spread down into the newly uncovered city below. All of them easy targets for criminals who seemed to disappear as stealthily as sewer rats whenever they got wind of a patrol coming their way.

Of course, it wasn't only survivors making camp where ever they could. Within days of the attack, any able-bodied soul who could offer skills –or even a strong back-- along with State and private alchemists from across Amestris had arrived to help repair the devastation; within weeks more had arrived from Xing to assist with medical needs, as well.

Survivors and volunteers had buzzed around the ruins like flies on a corpse, choking tenuous pathways even as they were attempting to clear them, and Parliament finally had to order soldiers to stand sentry at the entrances. Volunteers were being turned away; not because they weren't needed –Providence knew that there was more than enough work to go around—but because there just weren't enough resources and soldiers available to keep order. Too many were already being pulled off search and rescue to patrol the ruins and restore some semblance of peace in the many fights that popped up around Central like wildfires.

_It's almost like he's never existed. Goddamned gossip's more reliable._

In the beginning, everyone had remained hopeful even through the shock, as survivors outnumbered the dead, but as the days --and then weeks-- stretched on, the ratio had begun to turn. A sense of quiet desperation had settled over the remains of Central as any trainable dog was conscripted to help search for bodies. No one said it out loud, but everyone knew that the longer someone went missing, the greater the chances they'd be found as cold as the stone that had trapped them.

Pookie whined again, and Havoc felt the shepherd's cold nose nudging his palm. Giving in to the dog's request with a tired smile, he scratched him behind his ears. Pookie was one of the better dogs assigned to help patrol the devastation. He did a damn fine job of finding survivors and never balked at being sent into tight spaces to sniff out a cadaver –and he was big enough that body weight alone would usually subdue some of the trouble-makers they'd stumbled on. Havoc wondered if –after it was all over with—he would be able to keep him. Of course, if he did, he would have to come up with a better name.

Soldiers and volunteers had rounded up the dogs that hadn't gone completely feral and weren't so skittish that they couldn't be approached –and it was these that were trained to assist. A good dog was often the difference between finding a survivor or a corpse.

It was debatable, though, whether being found alive was the lesser of two evils.

There was no guarantee that those found still breathing would survive long past their rescue. Medical supplies were growing scarce; most of the manufacturers had been located at the outskirts of the city and had taken hits from the attack as well. They were scrambling to set up and process pain killers and antibiotics as quickly as they could, but it took time. Those manufacturers that were operating in other parts of the country were working day and night to take up the slack, but the shipments weren't always making it to Central. Too many trucks were getting hijacked, and there weren't enough soldiers to cover security for all of them.

The make-shift triage units set up all around the city rang with the cries of pain and reeked of sickness and infection, and even the surgery in headquarters was not immune to the short supplies and patient losses. Only those patients suffering the worst, but expected to live, were given anything, and then it was in low doses in the hopes that what was available would hold out until the manufacturers could create more.

Doctors and nurses were being forced to make decisions that went against their oaths by withholding medication to the dying; not even an aspirin to make the patient's remaining moments a little more comfortable. They only thing they could offer was a warm blanket and a cobbled-together screen for privacy while the life left the victims in screams and strangled sobs. There wasn't even a hand available to hold, as every one was needed to treat the survivors.

Pookie's ears pricked and Havoc glanced up as a jeep rolled slowly past, laden with injured and sick on their way to the closest triage unit. He almost took his hat off as a show of respect for the walking dead, but figured no one would appreciate the gesture.

People who'd originally escaped harm in the invasion were starting to fall, too. At first it had been injuries from unstable rubble or thug attacks, but it soon became illness.

_He hasn't been working with any of the SARs units. He could've still gotten his ass trapped, though._

Scarves and bandanas weren't enough to completely hold back the dust from crumbled buildings; microscopic flecks of lead paint and asbestos floated through the air and settled on every surface, only to be kicked up again when the searchers dug through one pile or another looking for someone… anyone… who might still be alive. Fine grit from mortar and brick and coal used in heating joined the more invisible contaminants, etching away at nasal passages and lungs, starting with a tickle in the throat and growing to a chronic cough that became tinged with blood in the more severe cases. They were slow and painful deaths, and there would be people dying this way for years after the restoration became little more than a chapter in history books.

And that was the least of the dangers.

Minor contusions that went unnoticed or ignored could become deadly infections with exposure to decomposed corpses and raw sewage and no one could be completely certain of what might be in the water that filled basements and craters. Epidemics of typhoid and typus were expected and prepared for as best as was possible; cholera was already hitting hard because of the lack of sanitation. And now that cold weather had begun to set in, the risk of pneumonia and influenza was greater.

_No one's found him in any triage._

It was estimated that at least half the remaining population was going be wiped out from one or more of these diseases. That was if they were lucky and the medical supplies started arriving soon.

"You still alive back there, Breda?" Havoc called and was rewarded with a groan and more distressed noises. The captain rolled his cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other and frowned. That wasn't good… Breda had been growing increasingly sicker as the day went on. At first it was just a complaint of indigestion, but it soon became mad dashes to anywhere he could lean or squat over as he alternated between vomiting and diarrhea. And with the number of flooded basements they'd waded through in their search—well, he really didn't want to think about it. "Make sure to check your stools, man."

"Yeah, yeah," Breda groaned. "The shit's still nice and brown. You wanna look?"

Havoc chuckled. If Breda could still find the energy to be a crude bastard, maybe he'd be all right after all. "Ah, no. Thanks."

Even with most of the city fairly clean –if not yet restored-- the stink of refuse and decomposition still hung heavy in the air, mingling with the acrid reek of gas fires that would spring up periodically, and the smoke from burning garbage… and burning dead. It was worse in this sector, though. It was the last place to be slated for clean-up; the slums of Central. Rumour had it that the whole area was probably just going to be demolished. Havoc hoped not; everyone deserved a place to live, even if it wasn't a mansion in the Wauge district.

He ground out his cigarette and sighed. At least here, the unit he commanded –a mix of soldiers and civilians-- had something to do and got regular breaks. There were sectors of the city that had people just taking up space, and other units that were undermanned. Lt. Colonel Armstrong and Major Hawkeye had been petitioning the Brass to redistribute people where they were needed most, but Havoc hadn't heard anything on that since last week.

_Hawkeye's gonna put a bullet through someone if we don't get some answers soon._

The wind shifted and the reek of sewage and decay was suddenly more putrid. Pookie sneezed, whined and pawed desperately at his nose, and Havoc scrambled to get his bandana back over the lower half of his face. "Ugh!"

Breda came around the crumbled wall, still fastening his pants and shot both dogs a dirty look. "I covered it up as best as I could."

Havoc shook his head and pointed toward the south end of the city where a soft orange glow lit the darkening sky. "It's that."

"Is that from the burning grounds?" At Havoc's nod, Breda said, "I heard those guys are working double-time, and still can't keep up."

"How many bodies do you think they're trucking in every day?" Havoc asked as he stiffly came to his feet. He'd set on the cold concrete step for too long; he was going to pay hell for it in the morning.

"Too damn many," Breda said. Then, softy, "You think that's where he is?"

Havoc didn't answer. Instead he clucked at Pookie and started back on patrol.

* * *

** Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist (Hagane no Renkinjutsushi) was created by Arakawa Hiromu and is serialized monthly in Shonen Gangan (Square Enix). Copyright for this property is held by Arakawa Hiromu and Square Enix. **


	2. Bright Light Dim II

**II**

For one corporal, the stench of burning corpses brought back flashes of memories better left forgotten, but there was little a Flame alchemist could offer in the way of rescue and restoration that could give him any distance from the smell. Instead, he served his country in the best way he could at the moment: in the capacity of 'Public Health'.

Parklands at the outskirts of Central had been commandeered for just that purpose. It was the largest plot of undeveloped land that had enough space to dig numerous trenches and far enough from the city to prevent a stray spark from finishing the devastation the invasion had begun. From a distance, the constant bonfires were a warm glow, but within the center of the burning grounds, it was an image right out of Allegheri's Inferno. On all sides, flames rose from pits filled with garbage, waste and corpses, and they would fill as quickly as new trenches were being dug. Where there wasn't a constant pyre to light the night, available space was taken up by piles of refuse that was too damaged or contaminated to be salvageable, or corpses waiting for their turn to be cremated.

'Cremated' was the polite term. Even the Flame couldn't get the fires hot enough to turn a trench-full of corpses into ash. At best, the mass was reduced to a manageable level of bones and fricasseed lipids and rendered somewhat sterile. Lime was poured over what remained once the fire was completely out, and a new pile of corpses was thrown in on top to start the process over again.

During the day, the fires paled against the weak sunlight that couldn't push completely through the haze of smoke, giving the grounds an almost colorless, dismal appearance. The muck and gore and workers blended with the sky in varying shades of grey; washed-out and depressing. But when night fell, the flames seemed brighter in comparison to the dark backdrop, casting a flickering light that distorted shadows and images. A shirtless, bent back would become hunched and deformed as the owner would bend over his shovel, a face within the pyre would stand out, frozen in a rictus of agony, a hand sticking out from the stack of bodies waiting to be disposed of would become clawed, and all around malevolent shadows clung to the edge of darkness.

With his low rank and former reputation, Roy Mustang was taking orders, rather than giving them –and being handed the shittiest jobs available. When he wasn't helping to stack corpses brought in by the truckload like cord wood or tossing them into the pits, he was turning trenches into walls of flame; snapping until his fingers bled and his knuckles swelled. He worked each day without complaint until he practically dropped, and frequently bit back sarcastic rejoinders when the second lieutenant in charge of his disposal unit would throw spiteful barbs at him. Getting busted down to corporal was bad enough; he didn't relish the thought of becoming a private.

The days had begun to bleed into each other after awhile and Roy lost track of time. Every night he'd stumble into the bivouac he shared with 30 other nameless grunts –civilians and low-ranking soldiers—and fall into his bunk, unconscious before his head hit the pillow. There were prisoners drafted for corpse duty as well, but they were only a handful and kept separate. The rest had been killed in the first wave of the invasion.

Roy often failed to realize when it was time to eat until someone shoved a pack of C rations in his face, and he frequently forgot his weekly shower. Not that anyone would notice; the redolence of unwashed flesh was overpowered by smoke and decay and everyone looked like hell together.

Weeks into the clean-up --_or had it been months? It felt like years_-- there were more corpses than usual and Roy's flame alchemy was being hampered by a constant drizzle. The weather and the extra work only managed to make shortened tempers more volatile –especially, it seemed, for the second lieutenant—with the corporal being his preferred target this day. At every opportunity, the lieutenant –and Roy couldn't remember his name, nor did he care to—_accidentally_ shoved him or bumped him, causing Roy and whoever was helping him at the moment to loose their tenuous grips on a body. His uniform, already a ruined mess from the soot and damp from the rain, became sodden and covered in muck as his knees hit the mud time after time. His legs were beginning to chafe and the wetness wicked into his boots, causing blisters.

Throwing entire bodies into a pit to be burned was bad enough, but when evening came, Roy was taken off that job and given a worse one –disposing of body _parts_.

Corporal Mustang had seen enough dismembered corpses in Ishbal to have become inured to the gruesomeness of it all, but there was medical waste mixed in with the severed limbs and entrails. Crushed or gangrenous and fly-blown extremities were combined with blood or vomit soaked sheets and blankets and clothes –and all of it coated with a rancorous slime that Roy recognized as the liquefied remains of a victim or ten that had been trapped in small, hot 'coffins' since the invasion.

It was a heartbreaking result of the attack. Children, as was their wont when terrified, often sought safety in small, confined places adults couldn't get into. Most of these were coal bins or wood boxes hidden in the dark corners of cellars that were flooded by broken sewer lines. Trapped and without air, they slowly suffocated; then bacteria from decomp and sewage created a greenhouse effect in the tiny coffins. The instinct that drove the children to hide so well became the cause of their demise and eventual liquefaction.

He stared in dismay at the haphazard pile before him as what appeared to be part of a mangled lung slid down and landed into the palm of a fine-boned hand that probably once belonged to a rich socialite, then tumbled into space to land with a wet plop in a mud-puddle when the thin fingers of that delicate hand bent back under the weight of the organ— and wondered why he'd volunteered for this duty in the first place. Then he remembered that General Hakuro was the one who had done it for him. _A lesson in humility_, he'd said for Roy's ears only, as he strutted past.

There was a sort of twisted logic to the assignment, Roy knew, and that was why he stayed when others requested to be rotated out. But that didn't stop him from hoping the bastard lived long enough for him to return the favor.

"That shit ain't gonna march itself to the fire, corporal," the second lieutenant barked. "Get fresh gear and get to work."

"Sir," Roy said as he shook himself out of his revulsion and headed around the ghastly hill toward the supply tent for rubber gloves and goggles.

His exhaustion was causing his mind and body to react slowly, thus it hadn't registered the whack at his ankle until it was too late to stop himself from ending up sprawled in a puddle of mud and gore. Shaking from aching muscles and barely controlled rage, he slowly came up to his hands and knees. Behind him, he could hear the raucous laughing from the second lieutenant and tried to block it out. He was the hero of Goddamn Central! He might be a corporal, but he deserved _some_ fucking respect, at least.

_In time_, he reminded himself as he concentrated on simply breathing. Surely they wouldn't forget how he'd helped save this city –how he took _command_, while the Brass hid under their desks and pissed themselves.

"You should watch where you're going," the second lieutenant sneered. "Looks like you really are a wet match-stick now."

Roy's fingers dug deep into the muck as he gritted his teeth and forced his anger and humiliation under control.

"Ranson!" snapped a new voice from somewhere behind him. It sounded vaguely familiar and Roy was certain if he weren't so bloody exhausted and furious right now, he'd be able to put a face with it. "You're relieved of duty _now_."

"Oh, c'mon," the second lieutenant complained. "I was just joking around with the grunt."

"I don't see the humour in tripping one of your subordinates into a pile of corpses, _second_ lieutenant, and if you don't want to get busted all the way down to buck private, you'll hie your ass over to Lt Commander Armstrong's unit for SAR for the duration."

Roy felt a glimmer of satisfaction when he heard the second lieutenant audibly gulp, then stammer out a "Y-yes sir."

A moment later, someone knelt in front of him and he felt warm hands on his shoulders. "Need a hand up, Boss?"

Roy gazed blearily up and had to blink a few times before he could focus well enough to see the bright blue eyes within the form made out of ash and dust. The ever-present rakish grin was hidden behind a bandana that was the same grey as everything else, and the bangs that normally looked like fractured sunlight were weighed down by grime –but there was no mistaking who it was. "Jean." And Roy found the energy to smile…

…Then he remembered himself and quickly corrected. "Uh… lieu— no, _Captain_ Havoc."

Jean chuffed as he helped Roy to his feet and said, "You actually heard about that, huh?"

"It seemed that field promotions had been handed out like party favors for awhile there," Roy said as Jean led him to a felled tree someone had taken a saw to and turned into a passable bench. "But yes. I know about everyone's," he added with a soft groan of relief as he sat.

Sadness flickered in Jean's eyes as he settled next to his former commander and Roy didn't miss the unspoken, _Except yours_.

He dismissed the silent complaint with a wave as he glanced around and noticed several fresh people among the corpse detail. Impossible to recognize buried under the grime, but more energetic and… alive. Several groups had even begun pitching bodies for cremation with more vigor than he'd seen in awhile. "What's going on?"

Jean chuckled and gestured a woman over who was carrying a bucket of water and had tin cups hanging from hooks on her belt. "The Brass finally realized that some of the units had too many people standing around with their thumbs up their asses and decided it might be a good idea to redistribute the numbers," Jean said as he pulled a moderately less filthy rag from his pants pocket and then ladled enough water from the bucket to dampen it. "Took 'em long enough," he added, then shoved the rag at Roy. "I think what finally convinced them was Strongarm's muscles," he chortled.

The corporal yanked down his mask and wiped at the grease and filth coating his face, then stared at the piles of dead that never seemed to get any smaller. "There are people with nothing to do?"

At first, it looked like Jean was about to laugh, but realization replaced grim amusement as he slowly pulled his own bandana off. "When was the last time you were away from this—" he waved at the hellish surroundings.

"I've been on corpse detail since the assignments were handed out."

Jean's fist clenched and he ground out, "Fuck being busted down to private, I'm just gonna kick Ranson's ass and get it over with. You were supposed to be rotated out after three weeks like everyone else. Goddamn that bas—"

"I volunteered to remain."

Jean stared as though he thought his former commander might have finally lost his mind completely.

Roy shot him a small, tired smile. "It seemed… logical."

"You mean it's more _atonement_, don'cha?" Jean spat, then quickly looked away.

Roy was stunned silent at the bitterness in the man's voice; however, he was hardly going to deny it was part of the motivation. But oh how it stung.

Jean's fists balled tightly on his knees as he stared down and Roy almost didn't hear him mutter, "—rogant bastard." It started low, with, "You have no idea what a pain in the ass it was to track you down," then grew as he chronicled in great detail exactly how difficult it had been. Each description of every hindrance his former staff had hit was peppered with colorful theories on the stonewallers' bad hygiene, eating habits or sexual practices --the majority of the latter being patently impossible, but entertaining all the same. To hear Jean tell it, it was a quest on the same level as the Elric's search for the Philosopher's Stone.

Roy waited calmly while Jean started to wave his arms about emphatically as his rambling rant escalated from just plain incompetent records-keeping, to conspiracy theories that were probably closer to the truth, then sailed right on into a general, but rather exaggerated, laundry list of all Roy's past crimes and misdemeanors as proof of exactly how much of a pain in the ass he really was. The younger man was like a boulder rolling downhill and it was safer to just jump out of the way and watch it tumble past. Besides, he wanted to find out if Jean going to come back around to Roy's purported hair-shirt.

Still, amusing as the man's histrionics were, Roy was deeply touched by the lengths his friends had gone to in order to find him.

He didn't miss the sudden cessation of activity at the edge of his vision, either. Most of the audience didn't seem to be disturbed so much as entertained –apparently the newly promoted captain had taken up venting his spleen as a hobby of late. It was understandable, considering the responsibility being forced on him, the work that never seemed to end, and his frustration at trying to find Roy.

Jean jumped to his feet, began pacing and continued bitching, but Roy noticed the captain never touched wounds that were still tender and raw, nor did there seem to be any real anger --just frustration and relief. Because of that, he felt comfortable in letting most of the soliloquy go in one ear and out the other –it was just enjoyable to hear a familiar and friendly voice. Oh, he picked out salient points for possible cannon fodder later, but the rest were either old issues that no longer mattered, or were merely amusing.

Roy allowed a slow smirk to spread across his face when Jean finally ran out of steam and sagged back down on the log. "You had girlfriends?"

"Yes!" Jean shouted. "Well… no." He growled in frustration and tangled his fingers in his matted bangs. "I mean I tried, but _you_ kept stealing them all. Fucker!"

Roy arched a brow. The ancient argument had turned into a running joke between them. Jean knew Roy had never asked a single one of those women for dates, they had all asked _him_. That wasn't what took him aback for an instant; it was the epithet. Never before today had he ever heard Jean Havoc speak to him in quite so casual a manner. Sure there was friendly banter, but there was always that invisible barrier between commander and subordinate that Jean had always respected.

Respect was still there, but of a different sort. The tables were turned; now Roy was the subordinate, but Jean was treating him as an equal. He realized then, that he could easily get used to the new arrangement and briefly wished that the two of them could skip out for awhile for a few drinks and _really_ compete for the ladies' attention.

_Those days are long past now_, Roy thought as he fingered the filthy eye-patch. It was time to make a new one, he realized. They never seemed to last more than a couple of days before they were ruined beyond cleaning, lately. He glanced up and caught Jean watching the gesture and he quickly pulled his hand away.

"Yeah, mark my words," Jean said, "after this city's rebuilt and people go back to their lives, you'll be stealing everyone's girls again."

"No," Roy said as he shook his head, then he smiled wickedly. "Just yours."

"Asshole."

"You only get away with that because you outrank me."

"Goddamned right, and I'm gonna take advantage of it while I can."

Roy's smile became warm. "You really are a sight for sore eyes… Captain."

Jean looked Roy over, but his own expression was wry. "And you're just a sight. When was the last time you had a shower?" He waved a hand in front of his face and grimaced. "I thought it was the corpses that stank, but I think it's you."

Roy blinked as he thought about that, then stared at Jean, dumbfounded. "I… I'm not sure."

"Okay, now that's just the shit. I never thought I'd see the day when the legendary Flame alchemist couldn't remember to bathe," Jean teased as he reached into the inner pocket of his uniform jacket. He pulled out his cigarettes and matches, and a small, silver flask that hung off his index finger by a delicate chain connected to the screw-top.

Roy took the offered flask and turned it over in his hands. It was a lovely object, just the right size to hide a few ounces of liquor in a tiny evening purse, or perhaps nestled against a creamy thigh within a garter –not, however, the type of thing he would expect someone like Jean Havoc to be carrying around. "Not exactly your style," Roy said. "Unless there's something you haven't told me."

Jean shrugged as he lit his cigarette. "There was a lady who was happy to be rescued and she gave it to me. It comes in handy when it gets chilly."

"Potential new girlfriend?"

Jean shot him a sideways glare that didn't have any real heat behind it. "I'm not expanding my criteria to include 80 year old grannies."

"Yet?"

"Fuck you."

Roy opened the flask and took a tentative taste, pleasantly surprised to discover it was fairly decent brandy. Deciding that it wouldn't kill him, he took a full swallow. "I see," he said as he screwed the top back on and handed it back to Jean. "Grannies are out, but former commanders are in, hmm?"

There was an awkward silence and Roy instantly regretted the comment. It was one thing to tease about stealing girlfriends, but he'd crossed the line when he'd started in on desperation. "That was uncalled for Jean, I'm sorry."

Jean waved it off and then hid the flask back in his jacket, and the silence stretched out longer as he watched the activity buzzing around the two of them.

"How did you manage to get your hands on that brandy?" Roy asked when it had gone on too long. "I thought all alcohol was being reserved for triage."

Jean smirked and flicked his spent cigarette into a nearby puddle. "I've got people."

"People?" Roy asked. "You mean you're actually finally making connections?"

Jean scowled at him. "I've had connections for years. Did you think that _good_ coffee just walked into the office all by itself?"

Roy felt himself go warm with embarrassment; he had honestly not noticed.

He was just about to apologize once more, when Jean grinned and preened. "Damn, I _am_ good!"

Roy had to admit he was impressed. He'd never thought anything his staff did could slip past him. He supposed he could have blamed it on Fullmetal for being such a handful that it distracted him, but it wasn't as amusing when the temperamental alchemist wasn't around to blow up at him over it.

"About time you got off your lazy ass," Jean said to someone behind Roy and he twisted around to find Breda striding up to them. He appeared wan, but was at least clean –a rare sight around the burning grounds lately.

"I told you it was just bad food," Breda said. "And I woulda been here sooner, but traffic was a bitch."

"So how many pedestrians did you hit?"

"None, that's why it took so long," Breda said as he fell onto the log next to Roy. "They're getting better at dodging. Did you know the jeep won't fit down some of the alleys in Old Central?"

"Now I remember why I never let you drive," Roy said.

Breda chuckled. "Good to see you too, Col—er… Well, glad to know you're all right." He cast an appraising look around the area and added, "I can see why you've been hiding. You wanted to keep this little slice of heaven all to yourself, didn't you?"

"Of course."

"Oh, hey, Havo! Hawkeye wanted me to give you a message," Breda said.

Jean waited as the other man tried to fight a grin that nearly split his face. "Well?" he finally prompted.

"Pookie's all cleaned-up and waiting for you in your quarters," Breda said, then started laughing at what he thought was a rather amusing joke.

Jean groaned and rolled his eyes.

"Pookie?" Roy asked as he tried to keep a straight face. Tried… but failed abysmally.

"Long story."

"This should be interesting."

"Whoever thought naming him Pookie was a good idea had to of been dropped on his head one too many times," Jean mumbled, but didn't elaborate further.

_Very interesting, indeed_, Roy thought.

Jean came to his feet and said, "Yeah, well, you've got command of paradise for the next three days, Breda. We're out of here." Then he jerked a nod in the direction Breda had come from and said, "Let's go, Boss."

"Go?"

"Yeah. Did I forget to tell you?" Jean paused and his grin went positively evil. "I'm your new C.O. And you're being ordered to take a three-day furlough."

* * *

**Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist (Hagane no Renkinjutsushi) was created by Arakawa Hiromu and is serialized monthly in Shonen Gangan (Square Enix). Copyright for this property is held by Arakawa Hiromu and Square Enix. **


	3. Bright Light Dim III

**III**

As Jean drove to Main Ops, Roy got a good idea of just how far the restoration and clean-up had already come. The electricity hadn't been returned yet; the only lights he saw were either from the warm glow of a few oil lamps and candles, or from generators set up in the more vital areas, like the triage units. Occasionally, he caught sight of the bobbing lanterns of soldiers on patrol. Most of the structures destroyed in the invasion were still hulking, broken shapes of darkness that blocked out uneven patches of sky, but Roy could see hints of new construction here and there.

The sky was still hidden behind a thick haze, but the full moon cast the winter clouds in a tarnished silver glow that illuminated the light frost on the surfaces and gave the devastated a city an almost magical quality. It was the middle of the night, so there was no activity on streets that were now clear, and as they passed the area where the first airships had broken the surface, he saw the faint twinkle of firelight down below.

_People are moving forward and living, even after this_, Roy realized, and felt a sense of hope growing within him. He'd stopped listening for any news on the progress of the restoration a long time ago; from the center of ever-growing stacks of corpses, it hadn't seemed possible.

He shivered and wrapped his arms tighter about himself. Even with the heat in the jeep cranked up as high as it could go, he couldn't seem to stop the quaking; just getting out of that damp uniform was going to be a relief. The constant bonfires of the burning grounds had kept the area warm enough that Roy hadn't felt the season change. "This is going to sound like a bizarre question Havoc, but what is the date?"

"December eighteenth," Jean said, and Roy detected a tightly controlled mixture of anger and sadness in his voice.

_Three months since the invasion_. He hadn't realized just how long he'd been sequestered away from the rest of the world while he was mindlessly pitching the dead into pits. He felt like he'd been asleep.

_You've __**been**__ asleep for over two years now_. He thought he'd awakened when he left his post up north to come to Central, only to discover they were in the middle of being invaded. A glimmer of the old Flame alchemist came through when he took command and, between himself and his people, held back the attack. He felt alive for the first time in ages when he found out Fullmetal had returned; when he and the Elrics had landed the final blow that defeated the invaders from the other side of the Gate. _Be honest with yourself, Roy_, he chastised. _You only provided back-up and support. Those boys did the real work. They were the heroes, not you. _

He sighed softly and hugged himself tighter to fight against the shivering.

That night, after the enemy had been sent back to wherever it came from, the celebration was loud and raucous. Being in the company of his former staff –his friends—felt like old times. For a little while, Roy allowed himself to forget the sins he'd committed and his penance, and be warmed by the camaraderie.

But when morning came, Maes was still dead, Edward was still missing –and so, now, was Alphonse—and Roy was still a traitor and an assassin. It was only by virtue of the fact that the Fuehrer was involved in a much greater conspiracy that the newly reformed Parliament allowed Roy to remain alive and relatively free.

He'd thought his post to the northern frontier was a good idea at the time, but his solitude was crowded with ghosts and they were lousy company.

When Hakuro handed out assignments for the clean-up and restoration, the old arrogance in Roy flashed for the briefest instant. That was not the kind of assignment to give to a hero, after all--

_He had little doubt that Hakuro was exacting a subtle form of revenge; for thwarting the General's own desires for power and for humiliating him when they'd been invaded. The simple fact that Hakuro's first and only act during the invasion was to hide under his desk and a mere corporal –a __**traitor**__, no less—did the job he should have been doing didn't matter. Roy still made him look like an incompetent fool._

--Then Roy had stomped down that pride and considered the logic in the assignment. Central had a population of nearly 2 million people and the _conservative_ estimate of the number of casualties was at least a quarter of that. Nobody relished the idea of digging mass graves and crudely cremating the bodies, but it was necessary. The job could be made more manageable with someone skilled in flame alchemy… and Roy's affinity wasn't going to be much use in rebuilding anyway.

At least schlepping corpses around for 16 hours a day kept him too damned tired to be haunted by ghosts --or to even think for that matter. _Hell,_ he thought, _I had no clue I was 'missing' until Jean showed up_.

As much as he was loath to admit it, Hakuro had been right. It really was a lesson in humility. Two years of seclusion up north certainly didn't do it. He was still the master of his domain. It didn't matter that there was no one to command, the only people he had to answer to were too distant to care much about what he did while in the middle of nowhere. On the other hand, his new assignment had put him in a position to take orders from a second lieutenant with a mean streak and who apparently held a grudge against Roy; for what, he couldn't recall. It didn't matter now; he figured the man was probably justified.

The jeep came to a stop at the service entrance in back of the main building at HQ, and Jean shut off the engine. A quick—and somewhat timid—grin flashed, and he announced, "We're here."

Roy only puzzled over the captain's anxiousness briefly, as he followed him down the steps to the back door. "You're quartered in HQ?"

As Jean unlocked the door, he shrugged. "I told you, I—"

"—Got people," Roy finished for him. "I see," he said as they slipped into the dimly lit landing and took the stairwell down.

Once they were in the lowest level of HQ, they wove and shimmied between stacks of old desks and cabinets that were covered in dust and cobwebs. Roy remembered that this whole floor had been nothing but storage for decades, but had been dorms for enlisted men way back before the rest of the base had been built. He'd had no idea that there was any space even remotely livable down here still, but it was warm and dry. It didn't matter if they had to make a pallet on the floor of the janitor's closet, as far as Roy was concerned, this could just as well have been a suite at the Regency in comparison to the past three months.

They silently threaded their way through the warren of tight corridors, and when they came around the final corner Roy was surprised at how clean it was. The junk had been cleared away and the floor had been swept and mopped. The passage was still narrow, but felt cavernous after navigating that maze. Three doors lined one wall, and a fourth was across from them –a dim light shining from underneath. At the other end of the hallway, the stacks of furniture started again.

"How many people know about this little arrangement of yours?" Roy asked.

"Just the team," Jean said, as he pushed the fourth door open and flooded the hall with light.

_He still considers us a team_, Roy thought as he followed him into the latrine. The realization warmed him.

They passed the banks of sinks and urinals and stalls, through another door into a locker room with a communal shower at the far end. The lockers were long gone, having been cannibalized for the newer barracks, but the benches were still bolted to the floor. Someone had dragged an old supply cabinet in and Jean opened it up, exposing quite a few hoarded towels, bars of soap and small bottles of shampoo. As he leaned down and rifled through a box at the bottom of the cabinet, he said, "We rotate around, but we have six clean beds." He came up with a threadbare laundry bag in hand and handed it to Roy. "We handle our own cleaning and laundry, this way no one gets any funny ideas. Toss your uniform in here, I'll take it out to the burn pile."

Roy took the bag and laid it over the bench, then started stripping.

"The other end of the basement is where they set up the barracks for the rotating soldiers and they come in through the front doors, so no one is gonna come snooping around."

With his jacket, shirt and cavalry skirt shoved into the bag, Roy sat on the bench and fought his left boot off. When it finally came free, a small amount of rancid, black water poured onto the floor. It wasn't much, but the rank odor quickly polluted the clean air of the locker room.

Jean groaned in disgust and Roy shrugged an apology as he peeled off a sodden sock.

"Boots too, Boss," Jean said as he fetched a towel to clean up the noisome puddle. "Hawkeye'll have you a new uniform in the morning, but there's nothing here that can be cleaned and salvaged." Jean grabbed the laundry bag after dropping the towel on the floor, and held it open.

"No, I suppose not," Roy said as he dropped the boots and socks inside. He stood, and started to unfasten his pants, but paused when he noticed that Jean was taking a sudden interest in the ceiling. Touched by the offer of some sort of privacy, even if it was only symbolic, he felt a small smile tug at the corners of his lips and finished removing his clothes.

"Uh, the eye-patch too," Jean said. When Roy hesitated, unwilling to expose the hideous scars of his ruined eye and cheek, Jean gave him a look that brooked no argument.

Unwilling, but unable to come up with a reasonable excuse to keep it, Roy removed the patch and dropped it in the bag with everything else. He could stand naked and proud in front of anyone --filth and all—even the rest of the scars he'd collected over the years didn't shame him… not like these did. It was vanity, he admitted… but they shamed him for other reasons. Reasons that made him feel exposed and vulnerable whenever anyone caught even a brief glance of them…

…reasons that he shoved into the dark corners of his mind and avoided looking at.

Jean didn't say anything as he knelt down to sop up the rest of the putrid water on the floor, then tossed the ruined towel into the bag, but Roy could sense in the younger man's demeanor that he understood more than he probably should have; certainly far more than Roy was comfortable with.

Jean remained quiet after he drew the strings on the bag closed, dug a fresh cigarette from his jacket, and headed for the door. Just before he pulled it open, he dropped the bag and turned. "Oh, almost forgot…" He strode back to Roy with a 'come here' wave, and when they met in the center of the room, he said, "Bend over."

Roy snapped straight. "I beg your pardon?"

Jean scowled with a 'give-me-a-break' look, then his right hand shot up and clamped around to the back of Roy's head. He gently --but insistently-- shoved down, forcing Roy to bend at the neck. Deft fingers carded through his stiff and dirty hair with a light touch.

After a moment, Roy understood. Handling so many corpses every day, there was bound to be more than a few that had been infested with lice. Jean and the others had worked their asses off to make these somewhat black-market quarters a clean and comfortable haven from the devastation beyond those walls; they wouldn't want to have them infiltrated by parasites. He relaxed and was surprised to discover that Jean's touch was quite soothing.

When he'd finished looking for bugs, he slapped Roy on the shoulder and said, "Looks like you lucked out. I didn't see any critters. I'll check again after you shower though, just to be sure."

Roy watched the other man leave the room with the laundry bag of ruined clothes, and wondered why he was so disappointed that the inspection was over with so quickly.

* * *

** Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist (Hagane no Renkinjutsushi) was created by Arakawa Hiromu and is serialized monthly in Shonen Gangan (Square Enix). Copyright for this property is held by Arakawa Hiromu and Square Enix**


	4. Bright Light Dim IV

**A/N: **Warning, Adult Content, and m/m sex.

**IV**

Roy balanced his shampoo and soap on the cold water pipe next to the faucets for the shower at the farthest corner from the entry, then hung his washcloth beside them. He assumed one spigot was probably as good as any, but he chose this one for the simple fact that the lines ran along both walls and gave him more places to grab if his exhaustion got the better of him. Turning on the water, he tested it with one hand until he got it to the right temperature --which was a smidgeon short of scalding. After months of cold showers and tepid, bleached spit-baths, he wasn't going to waste the opportunity to parboil the crud off of his skin. When he was satisfied that the water was hot enough, he stepped in and gasped in pure, unadulterated bliss as the needle-spray hit his bare chest and arms. Gooseflesh popped out all over him then slowly subsided as the bone-deep chill started to leech from his body.

He leaned forward, grasping the pipe, and let the water beat down on his scalp a moment –relieving some of the constant itch from the grime and soot embedded in his hair. Slowly, his head drooped and he let the shower pound at his aching shoulders and upper back. Part of his mind kept poking at him, telling him that he was wasting water and time and he needed to step-it-up, thankyouverymuch, but he told his conscience to just shut the hell up, he was damned well going to take the time to savor the luxury.

Runnels of hot water flowed down his spine, over his buttocks and along the crack to trickle around and down his sensitive inner thighs, the backs of his knees and over his shins and calves. The simmering heat stung the broken blisters around his ankles, toes and heels, and even that was wonderful. The feeling was sensual --just this side of erotic-- and he couldn't suppress a shiver that had nothing to do with a chill. He chuffed softly and almost smiled as he watched the water drip off, in shades of murky grey, from the curtain of hair around his down-turned face. Perhaps there was a good side to being so exhausted, after all. Fatigue was probably the only thing between him and mortification at this moment.

As much as he was enjoying just the sensation of standing under a deluge of deliciously hot water, it wasn't doing much more than turning the grit and grime into sticky muck, and he desperately wanted to be _clean_. Blindly, he felt for the bar of soap to his left, fumbled, and knocked it off its perch on the pipe. "Dammit," he muttered and looked around for where it fell.

He was dismayed to discover that the soap had skated along the rivulet of dirty water down the slope toward the center drain. His face screwed into a petulant scowl as he was suddenly torn between staying under that divine shower, and fetching the soap, thus temporarily depriving his sensation-starved body of ecstasy.

The siren song of cleanliness finally lured him out of the embrace of wet heat and with a sigh, he minced across the cold tiles to the center of the room. Kneeling, he flipped his wet hair off his face and reached for his runaway soap, but as his hand wrapped around the bar, it squelched out of his grasp and went sailing across the floor –further from the shower; from that exquisite warmth.

He glared at the slippery, white fugitive resting just out of reach; a nest of soft foam perched on the edge of the bar surrounding one large iridescent bubble that grew and grew until it popped --taunting him. Then with a determined growl, he lunged for it.

He heard a startled epithet, and then was stopped in mid-pounce by a pair of fieldstone pillars that appeared out of nowhere to slam into the top of his skull. Inertia, being a loyal follower of Equivalent Exchange and no respecter of legendary status, promptly forced him backwards. Bare flesh met cold, hard tile with a wet smack as Roy landed on his ass.

He rubbed his head, certain he'd find a goose-egg, and blinked to clear the explosion of stars behind his eye. When he could finally see clearly again, he noticed that the flesh-covered stone columns had feet that were currently dancing about in an attempt to regain balance… and it was then he realized he'd –_ohhelldon'tlookupdon'tlookupdon'tlookup_—nearly bulled Jean to the floor.

He caught an eyeful from toes to head of a body that looked like an Hellenistic sculpture; long, sinuous thighs, graceful hips, generous and perfectly proportional, uncut –_don't look at __**that**__ you idiot… Great Void, does he trim—up, dammit, look up--No, __**don't**__ look up—downdowndown, the floor is safe—_corded stomach, muscled chestand arms --_why the hell aren't you looking at the __**floor**__ you jackass?_— broad shoulders, long neck, strong jaw… and a distinct deer-caught-in-the-lights expression.

"Uh…"

Roy finally tore his gaze downward to the safe zone of Jean's shins and feet, which were finally still and steady, and cleared his throat. "Captain Havoc."

"Yeah, Boss?"

"You are standing between me and my soap."

"S-sorry, Boss," and the pillars moved out of Roy's line of sight.

Roy made sure there was nothing else nearby that he could brain himself on, picked up his soap, and then with as much dignity as he could muster, stood and strode back to his nice, hot shower.

In a fit of pique, Roy decided to forego the soap for the moment, and made sure it was perched securely on the washcloth so it wouldn't try to escape again later. He eyed the small bottle of shampoo and wondered if it was going to give him grief next. When all it did was stare back innocently, he decided to give it the benefit of the doubt. It smelled quite a bit more… feminine… than he preferred, but as long as it would get him clean, he wasn't about to be picky.

He worked a generous amount of the shampoo through his stiff, sticky hair, and squeegeed out thick mucky clumps of grit and slime that smelled like someone had tried to bury a burned slaughterhouse under tons of decayed roses. Actually, it didn't even smell that pleasant. It was a rancid, sickly sweet combination that defied description and make Roy gag. He couldn't get the toxic mixture rinsed out of his hair fast enough and hoped that the next round wouldn't be quite so vile.

It took four more doses, with Roy scrubbing at his scalp so vigorously that it stung, before the water finally ran clear. There was still an underlying scent of decay clinging to his hair, but it was at least tolerable… he hoped. He figured it was as clean as it was going to get, short of shaving it all off and starting over, and decided the bar of soap had been ignored long enough –at least its aroma wasn't cloying.

The silkiness of the lather, the roughness of the cloth, and the uncovering of flesh gone sensitive from so long under an armor of filth, stimulated his blood and made his nerves sing. The brush of foam-filled material over his shoulder was enough to elicit a gratified sigh; across his stomach made him hum. He exalted in the slickness, the steam, the water pounding on his skin until it turned red, and was loathe to end it… but he couldn't stay here forever. Besides, his legs were beginning to tremble as his fatigue demanded to be acknowledged.

He had one thing left to do; the one part of his body that he'd left for last because his abused arms wouldn't reach.

His back.

More specifically, that spot between his shoulder blades that always managed to start itching when no one else was around, and he was forced to do a passable imitation of a bear against a tree… or a doorjamb, or an out-turned corner, or… whatever was convenient and caused the least amount of embarrassment. It was a pain in the ass to get to under the best of circumstances --and Roy envied anyone who was limber enough to never have to worry about it—but now it seemed an insurmountable task unless—

He cast a glance over his shoulder at Jean, who seemed blissfully unaware of Roy's current predicament, and slammed the brakes on that idea, fast. Gazing down at the bar of soap in his right hand and the washcloth in his left, he found himself mourning the loss of his back brush—

The sudden, bizarre image of a splintered handle and melted bristles in a puddle of blood and a pile of smoking rubble flashed through Roy's mind-- _Alas, poor Back Brush! I knew it, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. It hath cleansed my back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it—_and he had to bite back a manic giggle. _Oh, holy hell I've completely lost it. The exhaustion-induced hallucinations will start any minute now, _he thought and almost started to giggle again.

_For crying out loud, Mustang, you're just asking for a little help. It's not like you're asking Jean for his first-born_. He forced down his growing insanity, took a deep breath and said, "Cap—Uh, Jean?"

"Yeah, Boss?"

Roy glanced over his shoulder at the expectant face of his friend, held up the cloth and soap, and pointed in the general direction of his back. "Could you...?"

"Sure." Jean crossed the floor unhesitatingly and took the cloth from Roy. As he soaped it up, he said, "Had to do this for my kid brother when he broke his arm once."

Roy sighed inwardly at the awkwardness of the situation --which appeared to be all his; Jean seemed perfectly comfortable—and turned his face back into the shower. He had to admit he was still embarrassed at gaping so openly at the other man though.

As the cloth buffed his skin, Jean's left hand grasped his shoulder –presumably to help keep his balance-- and with each stroke of the right hand, the left would gently knead at the knots. Roy had to reach out and grab hold of the pipe, because if he didn't, he'd surely melt down the drain. He'd barely noticed when Jean had reached around him to rinse the cloth and add fresh soap for another round; his left hand had remained on his shoulder and his thumb was pressing into the back of his neck at the base of his skull _just right_.

Roy had never been shy about acknowledging aesthetics in any form, and it wasn't the first time he'd noticed that Jean was attractive –although never quite in this manner. It certainly wasn't that he was adverse to the idea of intimacy with another man, Roy was too damned much of a sensualist to limit his options in that way.

His eye snapped open when the contact was gone for the briefest moment while Jean switched hands --a_nd why in the bloody hell are you even __**thinking**__ this_?-- Then Jean started in on Roy's right shoulder as he washed his back with his left hand and proceeded to turn him into a happy puddle of goo. There were no exotic techniques in the massage; just kneading the muscle like bread dough, hitting the knots in a way that made them loosen up almost instantly.

Before long, Jean tossed the cloth over the pipe and just lathered up his hands. Roy didn't think he'd reacted, but something in his demeanor must have alerted the other man, because he hesitated and said, "You're kinda tied up in knots."

Roy nodded and forced himself to relax a little –_nothing to see here, folks. Move along. _He shouldn't have been surprised at how skillful Jean was with his hands; he'd seen the man break down and rebuild a gun in record time and do the same with a motor. He was ashamed to admit he'd underestimated him.

His eyes drifted closed and his head lolled forward as Jean worked his way down from Roy's neck, to his shoulders, and on down between his shoulder blades. He shut off the constant yammering in his brain and finally allowed himself to just enjoy the simple pleasure of sensation.

It had been over two years since he'd had any physical human contact –since before he'd been stationed up north, in fact. He'd forgotten how much he enjoyed being touched by someone he knew and trusted. Just… touched, with no ulterior motives, no demands, no expectations.

It was quiet --the only sounds were the water trickling down the drain and echoing off the tile walls, spray hitting skin, and their breathing. Jean massaged his back in unhurried strokes, not missing a single tight or tender spot, and not moving on until he'd rendered the area putty. The languorous rhythm was only interrupted when Jean would reach around Roy for more soap to lubricate his hands or to pause to make sure Roy hadn't fallen asleep on his feet –which was a very distinct possibility.

A hypnotic state floated down over him and a low purr escaped. He was comfortable –safe. He could let his guard down…

The tingle in his groin warned him, but before he had a chance perform the mental gymnastics that would chase it away, he was faced with a raging erection of the likes he hadn't had in a very long while. Roy glared down at his traitorous organ and considered that under any other circumstances he'd be waving it around proudly, but not here, not now. He considered it small comfort that he was at least leaned forward; maybe Jean wouldn't notice.

Roy entered a staring contest with his cock; a battle of nerves, with Roy wanting to will the hard-on away, and his cock stubbornly wanting to remain painfully erect. It was a matter of just who (or what) was going to blink first, and Roy was determined to win.

Unfortunately, his cock was a part of him, and thus prone to the same Mustang stubbornness. It was an impasse. His only stay of execution by extreme mortification was to hope Jean finished his back and walked away without ever glancing over Roy's shoulder, or expecting him to move.

He felt Jean hesitate, and Roy winced. There it was, then… the proverbial 'elephant in the parlor' that no one could miss, but no one wanted to mention.

His cock had won and it would _not_ be ignored.

Jean's hands left his back and Roy sagged. He knew Jean well enough to know that _this-incident-would-not-be-spoken-of_, but he feared that it would raise that invisible barrier between them that had finally started to come down earlier tonight.

Then he felt tentative, trembling fingers on his hips. They hovered, barely on his flesh; asking silent permission.

Roy spread his hands further on the pipes --open to whatever Jean intended to do. Wanting what he offered.

Jean's palms covered Roy's pelvic bones with a confident touch. Gentle and sure, they slid around to his stomach and up, pulling him back and straight. As Jean's thumbs brushed against Roy's nipples –eliciting a gasp-- his arms tightened as he pulled him against his chest, his own erection obvious against the small of Roy's back.

Roy laid his hands over Jean's, not guiding or directing, but simply riding them as they continued up his body. Jean's thumb skated along his clavicle and long, strong fingers embraced elegant ones from beneath as those finer ones curled. The other hand caressed Roy's throat, his chin, his thumb brushed against his lips.

Warm breath puffed over his ear, making him shiver and setting off an intense chain reaction. Jean rumbled, the vibration traveling down Roy's spine to curl, hot and bright, around his balls, making his cock jump and his hips to buck once then press his ass back against Jean.

Jean moaned, "God, Roy," then bit down on his shoulder. His left arm crossed Roy's chest and he embraced him closer as his right hand encircled the base of his cock, stroked up and skated his thumb over the head.

Roy's groan echoed lightly off the tiled room as he rocked his hips, fucking Jean's hand and grinding back against his cock. It had been far too long since another person had touched him and he knew he wasn't going to last and he didn't know if that was good or bad and didn't care, it just felt so fucking _good_. All that mattered at that moment was his urgent need and the man pressed against his back, and his head fell against Jean's shoulder and he dared to look the man in the eyes, and the heat he saw in them ignited an inferno in the pit of his belly that snapped the muscles in his stomach and thighs tight, hovered for an instant that felt like eternity, then exploded out of him with a ragged howl…

Then Roy's legs promptly gave out as he sagged out of Jean's embrace and bonelessly to the floor.

"Shit! Roy?" Jean said as he knelt down next to him.

Roy stared at the floor behind a curtain of dark hair, unable to speak as he tried to get his breathing back under control. His throat was tight and his eye stung as he blinked back threatening tears brought on by the intensity of release. Even when a warm, strong hand grasped his shoulder and the other brushed his hair from his face and tilted it up.

"Roy?" Jean said again. "B-boss? You okay?" Emotions flit back and forth over his face: alarm, concern and the remnants of lust.

Roy reached up to caress his face. He smiled warmly and said, "I'm fine, Jean." He didn't miss the fact that Jean was still painfully hard, and he let his hand drift downward.

Jean was visibly relieved that Roy had finally answered him, but then he stunned him by going paternal. He stopped Roy's descent, and said, "No can do. You're exhausted."

"But—"

"I can take care of myself tonight," Jean said and flushed at the admission. "You need to get to bed—"

Roy started to smirk, but was denied.

"_Alone_," Jean insisted. He grumbled and tangled his fingers in his bangs. "I shouldn't have done that, but you really needed it, and Hawkeye'd probably have my balls if anything happened to yours and… aw, hell. Let's just get you up and into bed, okay?"

Roy felt a heavy weight settle in his stomach, and he tried to cover the disappointment he was beginning to feel. "I see, _Captain_. The assistance was appreciated, but I won't be requiring your services any more," Roy said and started to get to his feet.

Jean went pale and his jaw dropped, then his blue eyes went hard and he lunged forward, pinning Roy to the tile on his back. "Is that what you think it was?"

"Wasn't it?"

"No, you jackass!"

"Then why in the bloody hell wouldn't you let me return the favor?"

"Jeeze! I've never known anyone who was as hard-headed as you are!"

"Me?! What about you?"

"I'm not the one who collapsed! What the fuck do you think is gonna happen if you fall again and crack your skull open while you're in the middle of jac—"

And then Roy brought an end to the absurd argument by grasping the back of Jean's head and pulling him down into a soul-searing kiss…

…Or it would have been, if Jean hadn't been so startled, but Roy was insistent and once Jean got over it, his lips softened and he returned the kiss with as much passion as Roy had ever felt from anyone before. He discovered the man's tongue was as skilled as his fingers, and Roy couldn't help imagining just how incredible that tongue would feel on his cock. Then he felt a threatening twitch and he figured he'd better think about something else… such as taking care of the man crouched over him.

Jean broke the kiss and glared down through a haze of want as soon as he felt Roy's hand cupping his balls.

Roy glanced around them and said, "I really doubt I'll fall off the floor, Jean."

Jean sighed, defeated… by logic and lust. He didn't resist when Roy pulled him closer and kissed him deeply as he stroked him to a shaking, noisy completion.

* * *

Jean smoked a cigarette as he sat in the dark on his bunk. Roy was across the room from him, but he couldn't see much of him in the sliver of moonlight that peeked through the tiny window up near the ceiling of the dorm room; only the slight curve of his back slowly rising and falling in the even rhythm of sleep. 

It had taken the team three months to track him down –_three months, two weeks, five days and an odd number of hours, to be exact_— and when they finally found out where he was being sequestered, Hawkeye's orders were explicit.

_Take care of him, she said,_ he thought with a grin. _This was probably not how she meant, but whatever works._

It pissed him and the others off in a serious way when Hakuro had manipulated the records that denied Roy his field promotion and his recognition, and found a way to bury him. Yeah, they had a new government, but there were still officers in the top Brass of the military who were making moves to kick the Prime Minister's feet out from under him, and Hakuro was one of them.

Jean damn near killed Ranson, then intended to hunt down Hakuro, when he showed up to find Roy on his hands and knees in a puddle of gore. He thought he'd looked defeated when he saw him up north… but today, he looked like a beaten dog.

_Never again_, he thought, as he stubbed the cigarette out, and set the ashtray on the nightstand. He slipped under the covers and clasped his hands under his head and gazed up at the moonlight. With the intel Strongarm and Hawkeye picked up last week, Roy was going to be headed back to the top.

Jean heard a clicking and scrabbling from under his bunk and he braced himself for the inevitable pounce. All of a sudden, he had a heavy shepherd blanket covering him and he scratched the dog behind the ears. "Heyas, Pook." He pointed up at the window and added, "Take a look. The sky's starting to clear."

* * *

** Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist (Hagane no Renkinjutsushi) was created by Arakawa Hiromu and is serialized monthly in Shonen Gangan (Square Enix). Copyright for this property is held by Arakawa Hiromu and Square Enix**


	5. The Flickering Light I

**A/N The bunnies won't leave me alone, and more of a plot is coming to fruition. More for the Post-Apocalyptic!Amestris 'verse.**

**The Flickering Light**

_Don't turn away // Just take my hand // And when you make your final stand // I'll be right there // I'll never leave // And all I ask of you is // Believe_ – Savatage "Believe"

**I**

He was hovering in that grey plane between sleep and consciousness, snuggled down in a clean bed with blankets that kept in the warmth and replaying the last fading bits of a most enjoyable dream, when Roy felt hot breath at his ear. He rolled to his side to make room on the narrow bunk and was rewarded with the weight of a heavy body flopping next to him. "Mrrff," he mumbled; still half asleep, but aware enough of the fact he'd become tightly cocooned. "C'n you get _under_ the covers?"

There was a deep, wordless groan and more hot breath tickled Roy's ear in sharp contrast to the chill brushing his forehead from the cinderblock wall only inches away. He buried his nose deeper under the toasty covers as a shiver started at the top of his head and worked its way down to his toes. Other parts of his body started to twitch into wakefulness and after adjusting himself to a more comfortable position, he let his hand linger a little longer, languidly squeezing the shaft through the light cotton as he anticipated another hand in his place.

Roy purred as the form next to him shifted in the bed and struggled to cuddle closer --still on top of the blankets. He hadn't opened his eye yet, and really didn't want to. The threads of the dream that involved warm, tanned skin, a hard, passionate mouth, and skilled, calloused hands would be chased away if he did, and right now that ethereal mix of reality and the wisps of sleep was too intoxicating to let go of just yet.

Of course, if the person behind him had in mind what he hoped, being awake wouldn't be such a bad thing, after all.

His bed-partner gave a tiny little whine behind him, and Roy chuckled low. "Get under here with me and we can do something about that, idiot."

Instead, something cold and wet pressed into his ear and there was more snuffling.

"What the hell..?" He batted at the offensive object then jerked his hand back when he felt fur instead of flesh.

His eye snapped open and he craned his neck to glare over his shoulder. What filled his vision in the weak, morning light, was a black, wet nose and a set of rather impressive teeth. A wide, pink tongue lolled out of the side of a grinning maw that Roy was certain could devour him with a single bite. When he could force his eye to uncross, he took in the black and tan fur, brown-gold eyes and alert ears of a rather large shepherd mix.

His pleasant anticipation and erection disappeared like ice in the middle of an Ishballan heat wave the instant he realized he wasn't being playfully molested by another human. "Uh…"

The shepherd bounded to its feet, allowing enough give in the blanket cocoon for Roy to flip over and scoot back. As he sat up, trying to put some distance between himself and the strange dog, something shiny hanging from its collar caught his attention. It was a military dog-tag that had the original name scratched out, and a new one roughly etched in its place. "Ahhh. So you're the notorious Pookie," Roy said with a smile and understood the humor of Breda's comment last night. 'Pookie' was a terrible name to give such a majestic creature. He was going to have to have a talk with Jean about that.

A quick glance around the small dorm room told him that would have to be a conversation for another time. Jean was nowhere to be seen, but from the appearance of the neatly made bed, the uniform hanging on a hook at the back of the door, boots polished and at attention by the trunk between the beds --and the pack of cigarettes and box of matches next to it on top-- Roy guessed the captain was in the shower.

The dog barked once in a happy greeting that echoed off the bare, grey walls and made Roy wince. Pookie wagged his tail enthusiastically and scratched at the blankets near his hand.

Roy assumed the dog was friendly --he would have to be in order for Breda to come within a mile of him, after all—so he held his hand out for him to sniff, then slowly turned it palm up when the shepherd seemed satisfied. This apparently pleased the pooch immensely, because his tail wagged harder and he slapped a heavy forepaw into Roy's hand to shake.

"My apologies for not introducing myself last night," he said. "I was a bit… spent."

Pookie made a querying sound and tilted his head curiously.

"Yes, well… It's a long story. I'll bore you with it another time." Roy smoothed the soft fur on the dog's head, pleased to discover that Jean's SAR dog was being well cared-for. He knew that Hawkeye was heading up the Search and Rescue dog training and assignments, but he assumed that the dogs would be on rations as well. _More of Jean's 'people', _he thoughtand was once again ashamed of himself for not paying better attention all those years. _I really have been a self-centered bastard, haven't I?_

Pookie laid a paw on Roy's hip as if to nudge him and brought him out of his musing. "Sorry," he said. "I'm not completely awake yet. Of course, that's no excuse to be rude, is it?" He bowed his head graciously and added, "Corporal Roy Mustang, at your service."

This elicited another happy bark and suddenly Roy had the wind knocked out of him as two large paws slammed into his chest. Pookie then proceeded to become familiar in the _second_ most accepted manner of doggie-introductions: by nearly drowning Roy in slobber as he licked every inch of his face.

"Ugh, your breath smells like kibble," he said, then he strong-armed the dog around his neck, grasping the collar, and flipping Pookie onto his back in one smooth move.

The shepherd didn't fight or struggle. Instead he gave Roy a wary look and a couple of uncertain thumps with his tail. With his head back and his throat exposed, Pookie conceded alpha-status.

With a narrow-eyed glare, Roy kept his gaze locked on the dog's and slowly lowered his head. He knew he was taking a risk, but he could tell the dog had an easy temperament and his position in the 'pack' had to be firmly established if he was going to be spending any time with Pookie. Once he was nose-to-cold-wet-nose, he loosened his grip on the collar, keeping his hand close in case Pookie was playing possum. When the dog huffed but remained still, Roy let out a soft, breathy "Woof."

He lurched back just in time to avoid a collision with Pookie's head as the dog twisted to his feet on the bed, and then dropped his front half down as his ass stuck up in the air. Once again, his tail was nothing but an excited blur.

"You're still pretty much a pup, aren't you?"

Pookie panted and grinned gleefully, then bounced and bowed down again.

"Oh, is that how it is?" Roy said and then he flipped the blankets off and sprung onto his hands and knees, facing a shepherd that was nearly as big as he was.

Pookie responded with a playful growl and smacked his lips, then bounced again.

Roy mirrored the dog's action, then pounced and pinned the wriggling mass of fur down on the bed.

Thus the great canine/human wrestling match of 1917 had begun as the black market section of the basement dorms resonated with joyful barking and playful growls from both the four-footed and two-footed variety of military dog.

Roy would never be able to explain, in the years to come, just how they ended up on the floor, nor how they managed to roll halfway under Jean's bunk, clear on the other side of the room, but he would insist to his last breath that he did _not_ have his teeth latched onto the dog's collar when the contest was ended prematurely.

"Well, I see _you_ woke up full of piss and vinegar," Jean laughed from the doorway.

Roy glanced up, then quickly spat out a mouthful of fur. His brain fizzled, popped and then short-circuited at the sight of the half-naked, damp blonde, and he had an overwhelming desire to trade places with the drop of water that fell from those crazed bangs, trailed down Jean's nose, over his lips, to drip off his chin and settle briefly in the hollow of his throat. It hovered at the edge of that pit, then rolled on down his chest with a slight detour around the ID tags, down the shallow gully between the hard planes of muscle in his stomach, around his navel, then into the golden trail of hair that disappeared under the waist-band of a pair of low-slung grey sweats and into territory that Roy would very much like to explore further.

Forcing himself out of his deliciously lecherous thoughts, he blinked and cast about his non-functioning brain for an explanation. The best he could come up with was to point at the dog while Pookie continued to use his other arm as a chew-toy, and say, "He started it."

Jean snorted as he stepped over the two of them, then flopped cross-legged on his bed. "You should know better than to abuse one of your subordinates," he chided.

Roy snapped straight and huffed, "I was not abusing your dog, Jean. We were… getting acquainted."

"I was talking to Pook."

"Beg your pardon?"

Jean nodded at Pookie and grinned. "He's a _military_ SAR dog, Boss. His official rank is Sergeant."

Roy glared down at the shepherd, who scooted back, laid his head on his paws and thumped his tail twice.

"Marvelous," Roy grumbled. "Even the dog outranks me."

"'Getting acquainted', huh?" Jean chuckled as he leaned over and stretched to grab his pack of cigarettes off the lid of the trunk. "Maybe it was a good thing I didn't come in earlier." Without sitting back up, he shook one out and stuck it between his lips then tossed the pack back on the trunk and reached for the matches. "I don't think I could live through the trauma of seeing The Flame in _that_ position."

Roy never let Jean get those matches.

The blonde's eyes went wide in surprise when he was pinned to the mattress by his shoulders and thighs, but the expression quickly turned into amusement as Roy plucked the unlit cigarette from his lips and tossed it aside. Distant thunder rumbled as he bent his head and teased Jean's lower lip with the tip of his tongue; eliciting a sigh from the man beneath him.

In a fit of mischief, Roy denied the deep, passionate kiss the younger man was opening his mouth to receive, and chose to run his tongue along the trail that tantalizing drop of water had taken earlier. Jean's hum of disappointment became a gasp of pleasure when Roy reached the hollow of his throat and nipped lightly at the tendons around it.

Strong, calloused hands rested easily on the curve of his back and carded through his hair as he blew hot breath on a saliva-dampened collarbone. He could feel the prickling of gooseflesh and the rising heat of Jean's skin against his lips and the soft, wanting noises beneath him intensified his own breathing and arousal.

As he moved down Jean's body with agonizing slowness he felt the other man's hardness growing against his own and the desire to just rip those grey sweats off of him and lose himself in the scent, feel and taste of the man was almost overwhelming. Jean Havoc wasn't the only one with an oral fixation, after all.

It was a delight to find a lover who was so responsive to his touch and Roy allowed himself a small prideful smirk at the realization that _he_ was making Jean react so passionately. When he lifted his head just enough to look at the other man's face, his cock twitched at the way those blue eyes were lit from the inside with heat. The need for stimulation became urgent and he ground his hips against Jean's, creating an intense friction against the cotton of his boxers that forced a shudder and moan out of him.

He was suddenly trembling at the edge of climax and he had to tear his gaze away from Jean's as he shook and fisted the blankets and fought for some semblance of control. Last night was bad enough; he didn't want to give the other man the idea that being quick on the trigger was SOP. Roy had never left a single lover unsatisfied before, he wasn't about to start now --and it was crucially, desperately important that _this_ lover, especially, wasn't disappointed.

The hand that was combing through his hair slipped to the back of his neck and remained there. There was no demand or impatience; just waiting. "Okay?" Jean asked softly.

Roy nodded, but didn't meet the other man's gaze; choosing, instead, to focus on the steel dog-tags lying against golden-tanned skin. "Jus' gi'me a second."

"Hmm. I think I'll take that as high praise," Jean said with a touch of amusement lacing his husky voice.

Slowly, Roy brought his eye up to meet Jean's and a smile tugged at his lips when he saw that the other man's attempt at his usual sarcasm had lost spectacularly to lust. "Please do," he said with a wicked grin, then dipped his head and grazed his tongue across a stiff, brown nipple.

"Shit," Jean hissed and his hips bucked.

Roy groaned and sucked hard as he pressed his demanding cock against Jean's. Clothing, what there was of it, be damned; the stimulation was delicious and he began to rock and grind in a lazy, circular motion as he caught the nipple between his teeth.

Then Jean yelped and Roy was abruptly pitched to the side, against the wall.

He rubbed the back of his head and glared. "You know, if you're too sensitive, all you have to do is say something."

"Not that," Jean grumbled, and it was then Roy noticed the other man was glaring down at the other side of the bed.

A large furry head rested on the mattress, and where Jean's elbow had been just a moment before, was now taken over by a wet, black nose. Pookie stared back and forth between his owner and Roy, hopefully and tentatively wagging his tail.

With a barely suppressed growl, Jean snapped his fingers and pointed under his cot. "Pookie. Bed."

Clearly disappointed that he wasn't being invited to play with the two humans wrestling on the bunk, the shepherd slunk underneath with a protesting whine. There was a thump that shoved the thin mattress up as the dog settled into a comfortable position which, had it been from a human, might've been taken as petulance.

"Hey, none of that insubordination out of you, soldier," Jean said. "That was an order."

The dog grumbled once, then was quiet.

Jean flopped back on his pillow and covered his eyes with his arm.

"Well, that was a mood-killer," Roy quipped.

The other man peeked out from under his arm, glanced at Roy's erection, then down at his own; neither of which showed any signs of flagging. "Wanna bet?"

Before he could respond, Jean was up on one elbow and grabbing the back of Roy's neck with his free hand. He stole the kiss that was denied him earlier and slipped his tongue past willing lips and teeth to explore Roy's mouth.

As Jean pulled Roy on top of him, his hand slipped under the waistband of his boxers, pushing them down to his thighs, releasing his aching cock and sliding a finger along his tailbone to skate over the oh-so sensitive skin around his anus.

Caught between wanting to let sensation wash over him, and wanting to get Jean naked _now_, Roy fumbled to untie the drawstring of the other man's sweats and fight them off. The wriggling and shimmying and kicking to free themselves of confining fabric as quickly as possible was transcendent torture to his fervid cock; brushing against damp, silky skin, soft curls, and another stone-hard, burning penis. He was just about to give up and start rocking against Jean with his underwear tangled around his knees, but he wanted… _needed_… to feel bare skin touching him completely.

With one last kick to dislodge the sweats from around his ankle, Jean hooked a leg behind Roy's knee and clutched tightly as he rolled his hips. "Oh, fuckyeah," he breathed in his ear, then clamped down on his trapezius muscle.

Roy groaned and fell into an easy rhythm with the man writhing beneath him. Flesh slick with sweat and precum enveloped their cocks as they glided against each other, their balls brushing, touching, sending a bright, white thrill through him with each stroke. Panting and trembling; wanting to give in to his body's demands to move _faster-harder-faster_, but not willing to end the ecstasy too soon.

The thunder, continuing to rumble in the distance, was all but drowned out by the steady cadence of the springs and the tempo of their heavy breathing. The scent of their sex and sweat mingled with the bite of gun oil, and rich, brown tobacco smoke, and sweetness from all the hard candies Jean sucked on when he couldn't have a cigarette, and as Roy licked his neck, he wondered if Jean knew he _tasted_ like his guns and cigarettes and candy.

"Roy," Jean whispered, and it became a low moan that grew into an impassioned, feral growl as he bucked beneath him unable to resist the heat and urgency and need any longer.

"_JeanohJeanohgoddamn_," Roy cried, giving in to his own ardor. He drove his hips faster, harder and glanced up as he felt the other man tense, to see his eyes close and his head fall back. Overwhelmed at the almost beatific rapture on Jean's face as he came pushed Roy over the edge to his own bellowing climax.

He flopped down; becoming a limp, sweaty, human blanket, and thought he could die here right now… or at least take a very long nap. He got lost in the sound of Jean's breathing and heartbeat slowing back down to normal, and the soothing touch of his calloused hands along his back, and he wondered, as he heard the thunder continue to roll, how bad the storm was going to be.

In his state of semi-consciousness, his mind wandered back to the last time he'd heard thunder in Central in winter. The capitol city had normally mild winters, but thunder storms –or rather, thunder _snows—_while rare, were not unheard of. Roy counted back each winter he'd been in Central, and realized the last time there was this sort of weather was the night Elysia Hughes was born. _Six years ago_, he thought. _Gods, Maes, you should see her now. She's as beautiful and brilliant as you'd always bragged. _Roy sighed and tried to push back the wave of bittersweet memories. Now was not the time for him to become morose, after all.

He was grateful for the distraction when Jean snorted a short soft laugh. "What's so funny?" he asked, without glancing up.

"Nothin' really," Jean said. "I just had this bizarre desire to ask you what you were thinking right now."

Roy scowled and his head shot up, a sarcastic retort hovering on his lips, when his voice and breath were stolen by the softness and warmth in Jean's expression. In the past, whenever any woman graced Roy with _that_ look, he knew it was time to go. It scared the hell out of him, because it meant they were getting too attached to him, and if he allowed that, it meant familiarity, and eventually things he'd rather no one else knew about him might be uncovered.

Except Jean already knew where all his secrets were buried –he'd helped dig many of the graves. And that look didn't scare Roy this time… which, in itself, was alarming. All of a sudden, he found himself faced with the possibility of a _relationship_, and he had no bloody clue whether he wanted it or not, or even if it would work. Panic rose and he gaped like a grounded fish and he tried to find something to say, hoping it was the right thing, but not even sure what the right thing would be, and several emotions roiled through him. Did he love Jean? Unequivocally, yes. As a trusted friend and brother-in-arms, and the man was, quite simply, walking sex, whether he realized it or not… and _ohgoddamn_ the things he could do to him. But was it _Love_?

Jean chuckled, a mix of amusement and bewilderment in his smile, and brushed the long hair from the scarred side of Roy's face.

He almost flinched away, when he realized he hadn't even looked for a patch to cover it since he woke up… and it didn't bother him for once.

"You know, it's not like I'm going to ask you to marry me," Jean teased as he lightly brushed a thumb across Roy's ruined cheek. "So don't go looking for an excuse or a lie." He shrugged. "Just roll with the punches for once, okay?"

Roy's panic dissipated like smoke on the wind and he felt the tension flow out of him. "I'm an old dog, Jean. You think you can teach me a new trick like that?"

Jean opened his mouth to give what Roy was certain would be classic Havoc-sarcasm, but he was interrupted by the bunk lurching violently, and Pookie scrambling from underneath. He danced excitedly as his ears pitched toward the door and his tail whipped back and forth.

"Shit," Jean blurted, and tossed Roy off of him onto the floor. "It's the Major."

Roy didn't need to be told twice, as he picked himself up off the cold tile and dove under his blankets.

Jean wasn't so fortunate. He'd made his bed already, in perfect military fashion, the covers being tucked in so tight a fifty-cens piece would still bounce after their impassioned wrestling. He fussed and fumbled and fought the blankets down, while he was still on top of them, gave up about half-way, and just shimmied back enough that he could slip his legs beneath.

He'd just barely managed to keep his dignity when they heard bootsteps pounding down the hall, and the door flew open. Black Hayate bounded in as soon as there was enough room to fit his head through the opening, and he instantly pounced Pookie to play.

Hawkeye took in the two men, each in their own bunks and doing a damn good imitation of innocence, but her eyes landed on the boxers and sweats tossed casually on the floor and Roy didn't miss the barely perceptible flaring of her nostrils.

To her credit, her face betrayed nothing but a slight flush across her cheeks, as she said, "Furlough's over, gentlemen. Get geared-up; we have a riot at the Base gates."

* * *

**Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist (Hagane no Renkinjutsushi) was created by Arakawa Hiromu and is serialized monthly in Shonen Gangan (Square Enix). Copyright for this property is held by Arakawa Hiromu and Square Enix.**


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